He began to thrash wildly in the crate, kicking and straining at the damaged corner of the cage mindlessly, screaming like a wild thing.
“Oh for fuck’s sake… Cym, stop that, right now.” A welcome voice in long-suffering tones broke through Cym’s rage.
Cym stopped dead and looked at where Fourteen was now kneeling, hands bound before him, but looking none the worse for the wear.
“This would have worked better if your stupid family thought I was unconscious, but I’m not going to let you damage yourself over this.” Fourteen frowned, as he took in Cym’s blood-stained, mangled arm. “What did they do to you?” His voice sapped what little heat there was from the room.
“He did that to himself, champion.” Hester clucked her tongue in disapproval at Cym. “Did you really think I wouldn’t want your body if you injured it? This is nothing—a day wearing a few spellpatches at most.”
Cym ignored her. “Fourteen, you can’t—”
“Don’t!” Fourteen’s voice rang out sharply. “Just… don’t, okay?”
Hester clapped her hands again and twirled around in a circle in delight. “Oh yes! Stella told me about this. Does that beautiful man really have to do everything you tell him to? Cymbeline, you naughty fox, I can’t wait to play with him once I’m you.” She wiggled in anticipation.
Nausea returned in full force.
Cymbeline. That was his name. His full name. It had been so long since he’d been called anything other than The Boy that he’d only been able to give Fourteen a mangled version of it. Hearing it come out of the mouth of the freak show in front of him sounded foreign and wrong.
“Over my dead body, bitch.” Cym would choose a reenactment of what he’d done at the cemetery over letting this monster have control of Fourteen.
During the interplay with his grandmother, Fourteen had crawled over to inspect Cym’s arm. “We need to get the bleeding stopped,” he stated. “This is worse than it looks. He’ll die soon without help.”
Cym was probably more occupied than he should be with wondering exactly how mad Fourteen was with him versus whether or not he was embellishing Cym’s condition for a tactical reason. Fourteen wasn’t exactly being gentle with his examination, but he wasn’t being rough either. It was clear, however, that he was taking extra care not to make skin contact or touch Cym any more than necessary.
“I’m not an idiot,” Hester said in an exasperated tone. “No one here is going anywhere near Cymbeline until we figure out how to control him. If you want to patch him up, that’s your business.”
“Your people took everything I had. I need supplies.”
“Then I guess you’re out of luck. Why don’t you do us all a favor and fill us in on how you can stay free of his magic? Is it a norm thing?”
One of the young men in the room piped up. “When I questioned the people in the boy’s last apartment building, they all showed signs of being affected by him. If it’s a norm thing, it’s not common.”
“Cym, I need you to promise me you won’t tell me to do anything for the next few minutes.” Fourteen whispered under the cover of the debate going on overhead.
“You can’t—”
“Promise!” he insisted harshly.
“Fine.” Cym choked down his protest. It was foolish of him to keep railing against what was happening. Unless Cym decided to blow up the entire building and them along with it, he was going to need Fourteen to get them out.
“I’m holding you to that.” Fourteen’s bound and gloved hand squeezed Cym’s briefly.
“I don’t know how you think you’re getting us out of here. If my whole family is here, you’re looking at fighting off at least a hundred people.”
“I know what the situation is.” Fourteen came to his feet in a graceful motion. “Is it possible for you to accept that you might not?”
“And what do you think you’re—” Grant’s demand was cut off by a boot to his throat.
“Oh for Vis’ sake!” Hester exclaimed. “This is ridiculous.”
Grant was one of the few members of Cym’s family who had only a small amount of magic to call his own. It made sense that his grandmother had him in the room. Out of everyone in the family, Grant was the only one who had any self-defense training. Cym would have been worried for Fourteen, but it only took a few seconds to show him that fear would have been wasted.
Hester was dispassionate in the face of her great-something-grand nephew quickly losing ground to Fourteen. “You can’t fight all of us, champion. It isn’t like we didn’t prepare for this. Did you think we wouldn’t be suspicious when you showed up on our tracking spell? You just stood there and let us take you. I mean, we aren’t morons.” Despite her nonchalant words, she began edging away from the fight.
“You just let them take you? What is wrong with you?” Exhaustion swept over Cym at his stupidity. “Now we’re both probably going to die horribly in the immediate future. How is that going to help anyone?”
One of the young men grabbed a tool from the workbench and jumped in to help Grant, who was bleeding from multiple places.
“It was the most efficient way to find you.” Fourteen dodged the tire iron swinging toward his head and used the momentum to kick the other young man—Cym’s fourth cousin twice-removed, Clint, he thought his name was—in the shield, and his foot sank in, slowing his momentum. Fourteen recovered in time to twist away from the glittering knife that had appeared in Grant’s hand.
The fight was too close for Cym’s liking. If Fourteen had been fighting norms, he wouldn’t be as worried—he’d seen what he’d done to a dozen trained mercenaries by himself—but with his hands tied and without a gun to eat up his opponents’ shields, this fight would last only as long as Fourteen’s body did.
Cym inspected the damage he’d done to the crate during his frenzy. If Fourteen thought he was going to sit around twiddling his thumbs while Fourteen slowly fought himself to death, he was out of his mind.
“This is the dumbest thing anyone has ever done!” Cym was certain only dogs could hear his voice at this point.
“I imagine you would have suggested running away?” Fourteen asked as he dispatched Grant by throwing his arms around Cym’s uncle’s head and slamming his face into Fourteen’s knee. Cym was irritated Fourteen didn’t even have the decency to sound winded.
“It would have been better than coming here alone against an army!” Cym was trying to keep himself calm, but the way his voice was making his own ears buzz made him think he was failing.
More people poured into the room—some of them members of the Blaike family, some of them mercenaries. Cym did his best to force his already battered feet through the hole he’d made and ignored the bolts of pain that shot up his legs as he did so.
Fourteen’s cold facade cracked, and he gave a savage smile as he asked, “Who said I was alone?”
Chapter 17Cym
